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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25846627">Port Out, Starboard Home</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/onawingandaswear/pseuds/onawingandaswear'>onawingandaswear</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Check Please! (Webcomic)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst with a Happy Ending, Bad Bob's big bad backstory, Bitty spends christmas away from his family, Christmas Party gone sideways, Discussions of mental illness, F/M, Family Feels, Holiday gatherings, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, References to overdose, and has a little bit of a breakdown, caretaking!jack, depressed!Bitty, heartbreakfest, issues of self worth, learning to let yourself be loved, wealth disparities</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 00:26:41</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>11,646</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25846627</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/onawingandaswear/pseuds/onawingandaswear</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“Is that normal?” Eric clutches his coffee in his lap and fusses with his seatbelt. “Meet and greet at Tim Hortons?”</p><p>“It’s worse when we’re together. Especially now that Jack’s got a Cup.” </p><p>To his credit, Bob doesn’t say what the truth probably is: People are used to Bob and Jack. They aren’t used to Jack and Eric. That’s the novelty of the equation. As Bob and Jack argue playfully over who is more famous, chirps flying left and right, Eric feels the sinking again. He lifts a hand to his sternum, presses his fingers against his jacket, and breathes to relieve the tension. </p><p>The tightness doesn’t go away. Not for a good long while.</p><p>__________</p><p>Eric has graduated, Jack has proposed, and their first Christmas in Québec is going to be amazing if Eric can get out of his head long enough to enjoy it. </p><p>__________</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Alicia Zimmermann/Bob Zimmermann, Eric "Bitty" Bittle/Jack Zimmermann</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>88</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>481</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Check Please Heartbreak Fest 2020</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Port Out, Starboard Home</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miss_Glass_Doll/gifts">Miss_Glass_Doll</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Got some great prompts from the amazing miss_glass_doll, that morphed into this holiday-themed monster about self-worth and acceptance. Also took the chance to expand on some family dynamic ideas I wanted to explore from another work of mine, 'The Other Kind of Upper Crust'. I promise I tried to shoehorn some reincarnation elements into this but that's a story for another day. Hope you love it!</p><p>(Thank you to @RabbitRunnah for playing beta!)</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Uh, Jack? I thought — AirCanada is Terminal B, right?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Jack’s noncommittal grunt leaves Eric half-convinced they’ve missed a turn until they're pulling into a small parking lot beside a building that is definitely <em>not</em> a major terminal. Jack taps his hands on the steering wheel, looking anywhere but Eric. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“We aren’t flying commercial, Bits. Papa wanted to show off.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Context clues are one thing, but Eric isn’t sure he’s piecing together the right information. "Uh, show off means what, exactly?"</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“He picked up a PC-12 at auction last month,” Jack continues, gauging Eric's reaction. “Been looking for an excuse to fly it so he offered to bring us up.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">"And a PC-12 is what, exactly?"</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">"It's a plane. Not a big one, just,“ Jack holds his hands about a foot apart as if the ratio could somehow describe a passenger aircraft. “You know. A plane.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">A shiver of excitement crawls up Eric’s spine. There have been hints of something brewing for several weeks. Heated phone calls in rapid-fire French that Eric couldn’t follow if he tried, text streams and emails from Jack’s mother. A million conversations Eric politely butted out of. Maybe he should have been eavesdropping after all.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Wow, Bob can fly? That’s neat.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“‘Neat’? Thought you’d be more excited."</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I still don’t know if you’re kidding or not but, wait, does this mean we don’t have to go through security?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“No security.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“If this is a joke and we miss our flight on <em>Christmas Eve</em> I’m going to make you pay.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“It’s not kidding!” Jack’s grin turns to an apologetic half-smile. “I’ve been trying to keep my parents from making this trip too much but December, the whole month, really, is Papa’s favorite and he has a lot of traditions that are non-holiday specific.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Uncommon, how? Is your family going to cook me dinner? Cook me <em>for</em> dinner? Fly me across the border and harvest my organs?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“How much true crime shit you watching, bud?" Jack takes Eric’s hand over the console and laces their fingers. “Dad’s schedule made Christmas a pain for years, so we celebrated whenever he was home.” Jack gets contemplative, like he’s struggling to find the right words. “They’re usually pretty chill, but this time of year they like to show off.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“So, you’re saying your family has mine beat when it comes to Christmas.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Jack’s warnings are only adding to Eric’s anticipation, even as his better sense screams fruitless warnings, because Jack is not a hyperbolic person. He doesn’t exaggerate about much, let alone social situations, but Eric is too excited to care. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Sweet-Pea, your mother is a model and your dad is, well, he’s Bob Zimmermann. I’m not expecting your holiday home-life to be just like mine.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Some of the tension eases from Jack’s shoulders but he’s not exactly relaxed either. A sharp whistle drags Eric’s attention to the rear-view mirror where he can see Bob leaning out the entrance of the small hangar, waving excitedly. Jack groans, so Eric leans over and drags his boyfriend into a hug.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">"Aww, mister grumpy pants, this holiday is going to be perfect because I'll be spending it with you and your crazy family.” Jack's cheeks flush pink, and Eric pulls him into a kiss, ignoring Bob’s wolf-whistle from outside. “C’mon. Let's get our stuff before your dad explodes."</span>
</p><p class="p1"> </p>
<hr/><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">As a young figure skater obsessed with Beyoncé, growing up sandwiched between century-old farms and the manicured palatial estates that dotted northern Georgia, it was only natural Eric would cultivate an obsession with fame and fortune. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Did he once pin a photo of a Beverly Hills mansion to a ‘dream board’? Yes. Has he spent more than a reasonable amount of money on a specific brand name clothing item? Absolutely. He’s only human. That said, Eric thinks of himself as practical. A realist. His avenues to fame and fortune, few as they were, amounted to becoming an Olympian, writing a cookbook, and getting a show on the Food Network. However, in recent years, with a self-acknowledgement of his sexual orientation, Eric allowed himself to imagine what it might be like to land himself a rich husband. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Like most moon-shot fantasies, Eric shoved his dreams of success on the back burner while he tried to survive high school. Then came Samwell. Then came Jack. And because Eric Bittle is a good, well-mannered southern boy, he doesn’t listen too closely when Jack starts talking about endorsement deals or contract negotiations. Eric doesn’t think about how often he turns on a hockey game and finds Bob guest commentating, or how many times he’s seen Alicia’s face as he scrolls through Netflix looking for something to pass the time.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Marriage, kids, future plans that inspire as much dread as hope, because there is a lot of room for error when Eric still can’t open commenting on his YouTube videos without anonymous hockey fans accusing him of being a gold-digger. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Jack has been his own man for far longer than Eric has known him. Doesn't matter how often they've discussed the long term, Jack’s accomplishments are his own. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">For now, Eric is just along for the ride.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p>
<hr/><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The plane isn’t ready yet. They’re still refueling, leaving Eric to thumb through what he thinks is a coffee table book, only to find glossy ads for brands he's never heard of. He flips it over and sure enough there's a month and a list price. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">"You can take that if you want.” Jack offers Eric a cup of milky coffee while Bob <em>pays for jet fuel</em>. "Lardo liked to rip ‘em up for collages and stuff; disparaging late-stage capitalism or something.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">"You don't read them?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“The photos are great but I'm not really into,” Jack flips open the book and finds a random article. “<em>Hiring the perfect flight crew for international travel.</em> Yeah. Super practical."</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">A familiar whistle pulls them from their chirping. "Boys, we're gassed up, let's boogie."</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Lucky you." Jack grabs his backpack, giving Eric's leg a shove while he's down there. "Trapped in a sealed cabin with a bunch of gassed up hockey players.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Acting like that isn’t every roadie.” Bob slaps his hand on Jack’s back, giving him a rough shake as he guides them out onto the tarmac. “Eric lives with you. He knows better than anyone how you can stink up a room.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Eric doesn’t mean to hold back, it just happens. There’s a small twist just below his sternum; he falls back a step, then another, watching Jack and Bob stride toward a small white jet. The twist returns, this time with a little nausea and a burn behind Eric’s eyes. Not tears. Not sad or happy, but an overflow of emotion tied to something fleeting he can’t pin down. He wipes his face quickly, before anyone can notice.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Jack looks back over his shoulder, sees Eric, and smiles. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“He loves me.” Jack calls out, half to Eric, half to his father. “Even when I stink.”</span>
</p><p class="p1"> </p>
<hr/><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It's a 'private' plane, but nothing like Eric's ever seen on tv. Six tan leather seats in a cramped cabin that has even Eric crouching. Still very nice, still a private jet — lord knows it’s something Eric could never dream of owning himself — but it's oddly comforting to know Bob isn't zipping around in something obscene. This feels practical. Appropriate. The tension in Eric’s chest eases, at least until Jack leans over and pokes Eric in the sternum. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Hey. Earth to Bittle."</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">"Just realizing I have opinions on non-commercial travel,” Eric’s in that sweet spot of dissociation — if he looks away from the window he’ll lose it. “That’s all.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I told you it’s a lot.” Jack reaches up and gently tugs Eric’s earlobe, the awkward gesture dragging Eric back into the moment. “You freaked out?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Well, is your father a good pilot?” Eric asks, turning to watch an attendant load his suitcase into the back of the plane, which is very close and just <em>open. </em>It’s hard not to imagine being sucked out mid flight, so he does just that. Imagines being sucked right out into the open like a flight attendant in an action movie.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yes, but I also know how to land a plane. Just in case.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yeah, right, because you’re totally a pilot, too. <em>Lord</em>.” Eric pushes his seat away with his foot, pivoting both chairs away from each other. “Never flown in something this small before.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Wait until you see the bathroom!” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The entire plane shakes as Bob comes up the stairs, slapping Eric on the back before he climbs into the cockpit. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Folds out like a table. Jack can barely fit but you’re golden. Should only be about an hour once we're in the air. This thing isn't as fast as some of the newer models but cruises like a dream. Be home before you know it.“</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“My ass is too big, and you’re short.” Jack says, for Eric's ears only, but there's little room for secrets in the small cabin. “That’s the joke, in case you missed it.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You’re in the Show, kid,” Bob calls out, adding something in French that has Jack flushing pink. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What’d he say?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Said I need to get used to my ass not fitting a lot of places,” Jack grumbles, clicking his seat belt. "It was ruder in French."</span>
</p><p class="p1"> </p>
<hr/><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The flight <em>is</em> quick. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">They’re barely up before they’re coming back down again, Eric’s hand awkwardly clutched in Jack’s nearly the whole way because while Bob is a capable pilot, the tiny plane bounces and jerks the entire flight, leaving Eric just shy of queasy as they start their descent. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">"Nerves?" Jack asks.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">"Sure,” Eric burps. "Nerves."</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The next surprise comes when they clear the clouds and Eric realizes they aren't flying into Montreal; in fact, they shoot right past the metro area. Or at least what he thinks is the metro area.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> "Uh, Jack? Where are we going?"</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Jack peeks out the window before pulling on his headset and motioning for Eric to do the same. <em>"Papa?" </em>Jack tests the mic. <em>"We hitting Tremblant first?"</em></span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>"That's the plan. Didn't want to waste any time getting you boys to the lodge; break's so short we’d’ve lost half a day. ”</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>"Copy."</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Jack pulls off the headset and offers a reassuring smile. "We're going to the lodge," he explains, as if Eric hadn't been listening. "Which is smart because traffic is terrible to Tremblant."</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Eric doesn't know exactly where 'Tremblant' is in relation to anything else in the province, so he offers a thumbs up and returns to looking out at the snowy wilderness below. The anticipation he'd felt earlier is still present, but like Jack teased, now there are 'nerves' to contend with as well.</span>
</p><p class="p1"> </p>
<hr/><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The most bizarre part of the trip comes after a bumpy touchdown on a tiny airstrip, where they just leave the plane behind like they’re parking a car; international travel being only as worrisome as an afternoon errand.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Will it be okay?” Eric asks as they load into a truck parked beside a grungy looking hangar. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What, the plane?” Bob flashes a winsome smile over his shoulder. “Oh, she’s fine. It's a private airstrip, security cameras are all over.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Eric looks around for the cameras and doesn't find much to ease his concerns. A few light poles and a lot of snow. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“She’s a 'she', now?” Jack guides Eric into the backseat of a lifted silver truck before sliding in beside him.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“She’s always been a she!”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Eric’s out of his depth, listening to Jack and Bob banter back and forth, waiting for a thread he can grab on to; even after all this time, he’s still scared to say the wrong thing. Like any misstep might remind the Zimmermann family he’s not exactly on the same level. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">(Especially now that he’s an unemployed post-graduate mooching off their son.) </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">They hit the highway — <em>a</em> highway — and the endless, snowy wilderness does little to set Eric at ease, though the warm weight of Jack’s hand is helping. He bounces his knee and wishes he wouldn’t.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Boys?” Bob’s voice cuts through Eric’s brain fog. “Timmy’s?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Absolutely.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Jack?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You have to ask?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">They don’t go through the drive through, so Eric finds himself standing in line behind a tired-looking trucker and a gaggle of chatty teens, which is all fine and good until he realizes there’s a phone being pointed in their direction, and the kids are definitely being chatty <em>about</em> Eric. Or more accurately, Jack, Bob, and Eric, by association. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Guys, eleven o’clock.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Eric nudges his boyfriend’s arm and Jack, who had been inspecting a display of seasonal mugs, gives him a curious look; Bob, bless his heart, checks his watch.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Kid. It’s three.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“No, I mean,” Eric nods to the girl with the camera. <em>“Phone.”</em></span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh. Ah, yes, that.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Bob keeps his voice low and expression kind, though Eric can see a familiar furrow between his brows. Jack is less covert, slipping behind Eric to block him from view. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You want her to stop?” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“No, it’s just, you’re okay with them recording?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Comes with the territory,” Bob steps forward as the line moves, and the man in front of them looks over his shoulder, eyes wide with recognition. “You want to see how I usually handle it?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">There isn't time to say 'no' before Bob is stepping out of line to greet the teens, saying something Eric can’t follow before waving them over. They come, but not before Jack rests a <em>very</em> possessive arm around Eric’s waist.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You know Jack?” Bob introduces in English. Two of the girls blush. “And this is his friend Eric, he’s still learning to speak proper French but we like him anyway, ah?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“<em>Chum,</em>” one of the girls corrects, which Jacks affirms immediately by giving Eric a squeeze that has him smiling as well. The kids switch to English and give various greetings; the one who had been recording offers a quiet apology and Bob waves it away.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“All you need to do is ask,” he gestures for her phone and hands it to a passing employee before tugging Jack and Eric into a photo with the kids. “Say cheese!”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">By the time they get to the counter to order, Bob’s snapped a selfie with nearly everyone in the establishment, and the manager refuses payment for their order; Bob doesn't argue, instead slides the money into a tip jar.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Is that normal?” Eric clutches his coffee in his lap and fusses with his seatbelt. “Meet and greet at Tim Hortons?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“It’s worse when we’re together. Especially now that Jack’s got a Cup.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">To his credit, Bob doesn’t say what the truth probably is: people are used to Bob and Jack. They aren’t used to Jack and <em>Eric</em>. That’s the novelty of the equation. As Bob and Jack argue over who is more famous, Eric feels the sinking again. Tight in his chest. Eric lifts a hand to his sternum, presses his fingers against his jacket, and breathes to relieve the tension. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It doesn’t go away. Not for a good long while.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p>
<hr/><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Eric’s stress abates slightly as the snowy woods shift into hills, then mountains with craggy, snow-topped peaks. Nothing like the ‘hills’ in Georgia, real, honest to goodness mountains. It’s a little unbelievable that he and Jack have been together this long and Eric’s never been to the Zimmermann's winter home.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“It’s gorgeous out here.” Eric says, breath fogging the window lightly as pine trees whip past.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Suzanne and Richard got you last year. Now, it’s our turn to show off.” Bob boasts. “Next year we’ll get them out, too.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“That’s awful sweet, but I don’t know if I can handle y’all being in one spot together for longer than a few hours,” Bitty jokes, basking in the relief of a conversation he can a) understand, and b) participate in. “Might start a Canadian-American war.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The lodge appears in the distance, road curving toward a large, two level, cabin-style home that looks quaint at a distance but begins to sprawl along the tree-line the closer they get. The home is massive, and the road curves right into an oversized, impeccably clean garage. As they enter, Eric catches sight of a number of recreational vehicles — snowmobiles, four-wheelers, a rogue jet-ski — along with two black Mercedes SUVs boasting studded snow tires.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Home sweet home!” Bob chortles, killing the engine. “Time to show Eric the goods!”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Goods?” Eric swallows, climbing out of the cab before lifting his arms to stretch and blocking Jack in behind him for a moment. “There are goods?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Means the house,” Jack leans in to whisper. “He’s very proud.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’d be proud, too.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Merry Christmas Eve!” Alicia greets, arms thrown wide in the doorway of the multi-car garage waiting for hugs. Jack drops his bag and rushes in, lifting his mother off the ground for a moment and pressing a kiss to her cheek as they exchange pleasantries. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Jack didn’t greet me like that.” Bob whispers, elbowing Eric lightly. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’m sure he’d kiss you on the cheek if you asked nicely.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Eric moves to be wrapped in Alicia’s arms and drowning in the scent of her perfume; he thinks he can smell strawberries, he’ll have to ask later. She pulls Eric into large, well appointed mudroom lined with heavy coats, salt-stained designer shoes, and short iron-wood benches. If it wasn’t for the sink in the corner, Eric would believe he’d just entered the foyer. Everything is ‘nice’ -- the tones and materials are balanced, not too ostentatious -- but there are subversive hints of opulence. No clapboard or flimsy construction. The bench Eric drops down on to unzip his boots doesn’t rattle; he drops his gloves and runs his hand along the lacquered burl of the wood. He doesn’t recognize the tree, but he knows the pattern.  </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Why don’t we get you both settled and we’ll take a tour?” Alicia suggests, taking Eric’s suitcase. He tries to stop her, horrified at the thought of his to-be mother-in-law carrying his bag, but she moves so quickly Eric wonders if she’s doing this on purpose -- he barely has time to take in the rooms they’re passing.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“All of the rooms have fresh linens, though I recommend snagging a south-facing suite. The view is stunning this time of year, especially from that one right down there.” Alicia gestures toward a room down the hall, the furthest from the master. Then Eric stops rubbernecking and it clicks <em>why</em> Alicia would want them as far away from their bedroom as possible. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">As Jack's on home turf, he's already pieced it together, letting his duffel bag slip down his arm as he groans, "It's like two days, Maman.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Three days, two nights, I just want you to be comfortable!" she defends. "We're all adults, here. Room choice is as much about saving you two as it is your father and I."</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">"Mom."</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">"Jack."</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">"We'll take the end suite.” Eric announces, slipping past his partner to take the room. "Thank you for being so thoughtful, this is much nicer than last year when Mama made Jack sleep in the guest room."</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Alicia scoffs. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You boys are engaged so what's the point of forcing you to sleep in separate rooms, now if you were some puck bunny —" Eric freezes and Jack walks into his back with a soft <em>‘oof’, </em>“— well, then I’d make a fuss about propriety.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Whatever will the neighbors think?” Jack mocks, resting a warm hand on Eric’s hip to guide him forward, but Eric’s imagination has gotten the better of him.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“That’s not a thing, right? Puck bunnies? You haven’t done that,” Eric questions after Alicia’s departed.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What?” Jack straightens, shirt hanging from his hand as he stares out the window, likely trying to figure out what Eric’s referencing. “No, no, she’s been terrified I’d bring home a gold-digger since I was born, but I think that was more about when my uncle had a stag party up here and a load of guys got crabs.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’m sorry, <em>crabs?”</em></span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Eric covers his sudden dread with what he hopes is a look of incredulity.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yeah.” Jack makes a pinching motion near his crotch. “Crabs. But this was like ten years ago. Before we even owned anything.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Not comforting, Jack,” Eric chides, opening the curtains to find a stunning view of the valley, spread out beneath them like they’re suspended in midair. “Oh my God.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Fucking sick, right?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“It’s beautiful. You can’t see any of this from the front of the house.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Original owner designed it to ‘blend in with the landscape while maximizing the view’. When we’re done unpacking I’ll give you the whole tour, the great room’s got these huge windows —“</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Gosh, I just feel like I’m in a whole different —” Eric catches himself before he says it, bless it, but it doesn’t matter. Jack’s smile is so indulgently smug Eric is tempted to cross the room and kiss it right off his dumb stupid face. “No.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“In a whole different. . .?” Jack encourages. “Were you going to say you felt like you were in another ‘country’? Bits? Bitty?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“No.” Eric pinches his lips, trying not to smile, and shakes his head. “Nope. I was not.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Hey, hey Bits,” Jack’s shoulders are shaking a little and his eyes are shining as he rounds the bed. “Guess what?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Mmm-mmm,” Eric shakes his head harder, backing into the window. <em>"No."</em></span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“We’re — we’re in —” Jack’s laugh turns up at the end, almost a giggle, and Eric <em>loses</em> the fight against his own giggles. “— We’re in <em>Canada</em>.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">They both dissolve into peals of laughter for reasons that are beyond Eric’s comprehension. They’re so lost in the moment that they miss Jack’s parents passing the open door.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Boys, you alright?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Jack waves off the concern, voice gone since he can’t get any air into his lungs, and Eric gasps a weak ‘hello’.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“When you’ve finished suffocating, would you like a tour?” Alicia asks Eric as Bob crosses the room to slap Jack on the back. “I’m really looking forward to showing you the kitchen. Both of them.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Now, there’s something to be excited about. Eric shakes out his remaining giggles, still a little lightheaded, and gives Jack a playful shove.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Pie time.” Jack wheezes, offering a thumbs up.</span>
</p><p class="p1"> </p>
<hr/><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The chef’s kitchen is at least as large as their living room back in Providence with a number of commercial appliances Eric’s not sure he’s ever seen in a private residence before. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I think I’m going to need more than three days,” Eric jokes, inspecting the blast chiller. “Jack, you may just have to leave me behind.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“The lodge was built with a working staff in mind.” Alicia offers the tidbit casually, as though the idea wouldn’t be preposterous to a normal human being. “Also for caterers to use during events, like on Boxing Day, this place will be full. There’s a second kitchen downstairs that’s much more, um, realistic. That’s where I like to cook, myself, since there’s so much happening up here, but you’re welcome to have run of this place.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’ll start now, if you let me,” Eric gushes, running his fingers along the white marble countertops, feeling the most at peace he has since the day began. “Do I need to run to the store first, or. . .?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“We stocked up. Should have everything you need,” Alicia points to the pantry with a smile. “We’ve got dinner, you’ve got dessert, and then, presents!”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“We do gifts on Christmas Eve,” Jack supplies helpfully as he inspects the fridge. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Then what do you do Christmas Day?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Sleep in, drink, eat.” Bob nudges Jack out of the way to grab a Molson. “Whatever you want.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The idea of spending an entire Christmas doing <em>nothing </em>sounds delightful. Eric’s used to the hustle of family obligations, church, several feasts at several homes, but this seems reasonable. Maybe even relaxing. (<em>If he could only relax</em>.)</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I could sleep in.” Eric posits, pulling a mixing bowl from a stack on the counter.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I could also sleep in,” Jack grins, earning a light smack on the arm from Bob. “What? We’re practically married.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">And isn’t that something to think about. These people are going to be Eric’s family. His in-laws. His <em>husband</em>. The chest tightness is back, stealing his breath and sparking his vision. He rests a hand on the counter to steady himself and prays no one is looking at him, focused instead on Jack, but no such luck. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You okay there, kid?” Bob asks. “You’re looking a little pale.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Jack’s joviality is replaced by concern, and Alicia doesn’t say anything at all, crossing the room to press her hand against Eric’s forehead as Jack tucks in close for support.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yeah, of course, I think it’s just —” Eric tries not to raise alarm, but the room tilts a little and Eric knows he’s off balance. “Whoa, okay, I’m fine. I’ll just drink some water and get to it.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Jack rounds the island, brow furrowed in deep concern, expression mirrored on his parent’s faces, and Eric braces himself against the counter, taking several deep diaphragm breaths. Alicia’s already moved to the pantry, reemerging from the large room with a bright red first aid kit.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh, I don’t need that,” Eric protests, but Alicia clucks her tongue at him.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“This house is so large I can’t remember where we keep anything, but I know there’s some Meclizine in here.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Do you have a headache?” Jack asks. “Nausea?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“We’re too low for altitude sickness,” Bob reasons, guiltily adding, “but the flight was a bit bumpy and that’d definitely do it.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Do what? Make me dizzy?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Motion sickness,” Jack offers, and Eric laughs outright at the suggestion.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I don’t<em> get </em>motion sickness. I wouldn’t be able to skate if I did.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“It happens. Stress, altitude, inner ear disruption, concussion,” Jack ticks items off his fingers. “Totally normal.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> For a brief, shining moment, Eric leans into the possibility that everything he’s been feeling since he left Providence is actually biological. There’s a physical reason he can’t settle down, completely unrelated to his present circumstance; but he knows instinctively that isn’t the case. This is all Eric. Might as well be a case of the vapors for how much of a nervous cliché he’s proving to be.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Alicia makes a victorious noise and pulls a small pill bottle from the first aid kit, tossing it to Jack across the counter, who pops the child safety seal and shakes a pink pill into his palm to hand to Eric. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’ll get water.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Y’all, I’m fine,” Eric protests, even as his sudden move to intercept Jack gets his vision sparking again. “What about dessert?” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“No, no,” Bob waves his hands. “You are going to rest. We’ll worry about food, eh?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’m fine, I promise,” Eric insists, even as Jack hands him a glass of water and nudges him to take the pill. “Jack. I’m fine. Just a little lightheaded.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Lightheadedness turns to nausea turns to migraines,” Jack explains gently, guiding Eric through the Great Room and the previously unseen fir tree decked out in lights with numerous presents littered beneath. Even at a distance, Eric can make out his name on more than a few of them. “And then you’re sleeping through the Boxing Day party, exhausted and miserable. There’s no need for you to feel gross this weekend.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Those can’t be for me, can they?” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Jack slows and glances at the display, hand oppressively warm on the small of Eric’s back.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Why wouldn’t there be presents for you? It’s Christmas.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“But they’re so,” Eric swallows, unsure of how to continue, when he realizes Alicia and Bob are standing close enough to hear him.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh, Bobby, I told you we didn’t get enough,” Alicia laments, flushing with embarrassment.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Eric’s stomach drops at the misunderstanding; if he wasn’t nauseous before, he’s certain he could make a mess all over the rug if the moment required it.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“No! Oh, Lord, no, no, I’m sorry, I meant these can’t <em>all </em>be for me, there’s so many! Y’all said you wanted me to cook instead of bring anything and —”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Jack adds something in clipped French that Alicia ignores, focusing on Eric’s clarification instead.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Thank goodness, well, I guess we both showed our hands a little, then, there, didn’t we? And, please, this isn’t too many of anything, you’ve spent the whole year taking care of Jack, sending Bobby treats he shouldn’t be eating —”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"><em>“Says you.”</em> Bob grumbles.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“— the least we can do is spoil you while you’re here.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Plus, we’re flying you home so there’s no need to worry about checking bags.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Eric doesn’t know what to say but ‘<em>thank you</em>’, even if what he’s feeling isn’t so much gratitude as guilt.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Thank us <em>after</em> you open them,” Alicia gushes. “We had so much fun shopping this year it wasn’t even a chore. This is the first time in ages there hasn’t just been hockey gear under the tree.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I got a camera last year.” Jack defends.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“And?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“. . . And skates.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Mmhmm.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Okay,” Jack grouses, nudging Eric lightly, “time to rest.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I have to bake,” Eric protests as Jack guides them back to the room, definitely starting to feel a bit woozy. “That’s <em>my </em>present.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">When they’re safely behind closed doors, Eric drops onto the edge of the bed and groans. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Jack, you said I didn’t need to bring real gifts, I was just planning to cook and now I can’t do that because we’re <em>too high</em>? Altitude sickness? I’m not sick, I'm just . . .”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Eric doesn’t know what he is, actually. Maybe he is sick. Maybe he’s feeling like this because something is actually, physically wrong. Jack drops down, bouncing Eric, and leans in close to run a soothing hand over his back.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Told you they’d be intense, but they adore you and the way they show affection is by throwing money at people. Maman bought my billet family a car, once.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Please don’t tell me your parents bought me a car,” Eric protests, pressing his face into Jack’s shirt. “Please?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“No one is getting a vehicle, but I'm telling you right now: They are going to spoil you. If you're really uncomfortable, I can say something, but there's no need for reciprocation. It’s not expected; it isn’t wanted, either.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“But it’s on the table, now. You said it. <em>‘Thank you for spending god-knows-how-much on me, here’s a card because I’m an unemployed college graduate mooching off your son</em>’.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“That's exactly what you should do. They love cards.” Jack chides. “And you’re not unemployed, you’re writing a book.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“A cookbook.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Bitty.” Jack reaches up and gently holds Eric’s head steady between his hands. “Babe.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I know, I know.” Eric commiserates, wriggling out of Jack’s hold. “<em>Idiot sandwich.</em> It’s just a lot, Jack.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Here’s what we’re going to do, you’re going to lay down, take a nap, and when you wake up, you’re going to feel great. If you don’t feel great, we’ll go right to bed. You can cook in the morning, do Christmas Day right, but you can let me take care of this.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Jack —”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“This is my home, my family, trust me to handle this, okay? You’re a guest.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’m your partner.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Jack presses his lips together in a smile and looks down at the ring on Eric’s finger. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yeah, you are. That doesn’t mean you have to power through on my behalf.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I don’t feel good, Jack,” Eric whispers, falling back on the bed and rolling toward a red flannel throw pillow he can squish his face into. “I’m ready to be normal again, please.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I know, bud,” Jack slips a hand under Eric’s shirt and rubs along his spine gently. “No one’s upset, we just want you to feel better.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">They sit together in companionable quiet for a few moments, a warm hand rubbing along Eric’s back  until Jack leans in to press a kiss to Eric’s temple, another on his cheekbone, and finally, Eric turns his head enough that Jack can capture his lips.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I love you, Eric Bittle.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I love you, too, Jack Zimmermann,” Eric replies, allowing his eyes to slip shut. “I’m okay.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You will be. Sleep. I’ll come get you when dinner’s ready.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Eric stares at the wall for almost fifteen minutes, listening to the distant rustling of kitchen utensils and muffled voices. He should be out there, participating, being part of the family. Not hiding. Not having an ‘episode’. Distantly, Eric remembers getting reprimanded by his mother for being anti-social at a family gathering, once. One of his last skating competitions ended badly, and Eric's ego had been bruised as badly as his thighs. No part of him wanted to smile through an endless stream of aunts and uncles asking if he was finally going to give up his 'dream' of being an Olympian over turkey and a honey-baked ham. He refused to leave his room. Eventually, Suzanne came looking, all five-foot-two of her vibrating with righteous indignation, and that was that. He’d gone downstairs. He’d socialized. He’d cried himself sick in the bathroom after everyone left.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Eric could go back downstairs. He could pull himself together. Instead, he presses his face to the soft pillow and cries.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p>
<hr/><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">When Eric emerges from the bedroom around seven, head much clearer than when he went down though he’s definitely rocking some solid brain fog, and he finds dinner has been laid out family style on the kitchen island; a fresh apple pie with a slightly uneven lattice is cooling beside the double oven.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Who did the —“</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Bob and Jack raise their hands proudly.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“We used the jar of pie filling you sent in November. So it at least tastes like yours!”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“No stress,” Jack says, not for the first time since they’ve left home. “I got it.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The food is delicious, if a sparser spread than Eric’s used to at holiday meals. Turkey, mashed potatoes, asparagus spears, Pillsbury crescent rolls — Jack blushes guiltily when Alicia hands him the basket first — bacon Brussel sprouts, and cranberry sauce. Eric gets the impression that the dinner would have been more elaborate had he been functioning, but he’s grateful for lack of expectation. The tiny twinge of relief that things weren’t completely ruined because he checked out.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Dishes in the sink, we’ll clean tomorrow,” Bob announces. “Time for pie and presents!”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">While Bob and Alicia are getting situated in the kitchen, Eric goes to inspect the tree and finds a much smaller assortment of gifts than had been present earlier. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh, what did you tell them?” Eric asks under his breath, tugging Jack aside. “I don’t want your parents to think I’m ungrateful.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Not at all,” Jack placates. “We just sorted out the real gifts.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What’s a ‘real gift’?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Like, <em>‘I bought this because it reminded me of you’</em>, versus, I don’t know, <em>‘here’s a gift card</em>’.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">At Eric’s nonplussed expression, Jack elaborates, “You know how I get swag whenever I do a commercial, or attend an event? Mom and Dad have that on steroids. People just send things and hope they’ll wear them, or endorse them, or buy more, whatever. You know how Suzanne has her gift closet? We have the same thing at home. Like, half of what was under the tree was just ‘stuff’ they can give to you whenever.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Eric lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding, easing down onto an overfilled leather chair.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I can’t believe I freaked out over presents. I’m sorry, Jack, I don’t know what’s come over me today.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Stress? Maybe?” Jack suggests. “Your cortisol has to be nuts, you haven’t had anything but coffee and Timbits since we left Providence, it’s the first time you’ve spent a major holiday with my family, and it’s the first time you haven’t spent Christmas <em>with your </em>family. I know how worked up you get around this time of year, trying to make everything perfect, and I figured this was going to be a rough transition. No worries, no stress.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Bob and Alicia settle on the couch beside them wearing matching pajamas and clutching steaming mugs of cider they distribute accordingly.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Presents!” Bob announces like a king holding court, gesturing at Jack to start distributing the brightly wrapped packages, first offering a ribbon wrapped bag to his mother, an obvious shirt box to Bob, and then rustling behind the tree for two large, boxes wrapped in shiny red paper. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Did you buy me skates?” Eric blurts, taking the stacked boxes and measuring the weight in his hands.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“See? Hockey players know what’s what.” Bob toasts with his mug, his freehand already ripping into the paper on his own gift. “Jack mentioned you’d outgrown your competition skates and Sportium gave me credit we never used so they were free. You can have one for here and one for home!”  </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Bobby!” Alicia chides, producing a small penknife to cut open her gift. “Don’t tell him that!”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What? I thought we were supposed to be —”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Jack clears his throat, hard stopping the conversation as Eric pulls a glossy, black skate from the box, checking the blade and relishing the shine of the leather; some part of him <em>does</em> miss the elegance of being on the ice without the threat of physical harm, with only the music and the scathing judgement of his peers.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“These are gorgeous, I can’t wait to break them in. Thank you.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The entire Zimmermann clan seems relieved, and Eric feels as if he’s finally leveling out, returning to his old self just in time to save the evening from his own ennui.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Jack continues doling out gifts, so focused he forgets to open his own steadily growing pile until everyone else is done. Alicia is surrounded by soft, pastel clothing, a number of small jewelry boxes, and a medium sized oil painting of an intimidating, blue-eyed bird of prey titled: <em>‘Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if I hadn’t gotten into a cab with Bob Zimmermann that night.’</em></span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oddly specific, isn’t it?” Eric had asked softly  as she uncovered the image.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Papa probably commissioned it,” Jack replied, handing Eric a large clothing box, adding softly, “I think this one’s a coat.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You know me so well,” Eric praises before tapping Jack on the arm and urging, “Sit. You haven’t opened anything and you’ve got a mountain there.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Bob looks up from inspecting the controls for his new drone and gives Jack a confused look.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Hey, did we . . . ?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Jack shakes his head no to whatever question Eric didn’t understand, and Bob looks hurt for the briefest moment, but he rallies a smile.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">There had been a small, square box under the tree with ‘Eric’ scrawled in Bob’s jaunty script, the paper sleek and understated as if wrapped professionally, but as Eric’s taking stock, shoving wrapping paper into a large trash bag, he realizes he never opened that particular present. A shiver of disappointment runs up Eric’s spine; it must have been another casualty of the gift purge for Eric’s comfort.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p>
<hr/><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Eric wakes to a pair of strong arms wrapped around his torso, and a pair of warm lips pressing gentle kisses along the nape of his neck. Eric rolls over carefully, fidgeting not to dislodge Jack’s warm hold around him, wiggling until they’re face-to-face.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"><em>“Bonjour mon amour,” </em>Jack whispers, brushing his nose along Eric’s brow. “<em>Joyeux Noël.</em>”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"><em>“Feliz navidad,” </em>Eric says huskily, matching Jack’s tone and earning a deep laugh that’s so close to Eric it feels like the sound is coming from his own throat.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What’s the plan for today?” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Eric keeps his voice low, more out of playfulness than actual concern for early morning decorum. Jack yawns and stretches his arms up to grab the top of the headboard, arching his back until they both hear a low <em>pop.</em></span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Whatever we want,” Jack groans, coming back down.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I want to do nothing but lay here and watch the snow.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Rolling onto his side, Jack drags the blanket away, exposing Eric to the chilly air as he unplugs his phone from the charger and falls back against his pillow, texting slowly with his free thumb.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What are you doing?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Telling them we’re sleeping in and don’t plan on leaving the room much.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The implication is incredibly clear, and Eric balks at the brevity of his partner basically telling his own parents he’s too busy to socialize because he’s getting <em>laid</em>. Jack must sense Eric’s discomfort because he turns his phone around to display a text from the night prior from his father with a winky smiley face, and Eric’s second-hand embarrassment ratchets up to first-hand shame.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“They thought we were. . . ?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What?” Jack looks at his phone. “No, he was telling me he and mom were, uh, indisposed.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Indisposed.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yes.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“So, is this an all day thing, or . . .?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“If I go now I can get breakfast before they’re up.” Jack rolls out of bed and hops upright, back to Eric so he can see the way Jack’s bare backside bounces. “Run right back here.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I love your ass,” Eric whispers into his pillow. Jack answers his statement with a little wiggle before he pulls on his sweats.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Thanks, I made it myself.” Jack chirps, slipping out into the hallway. “Don’t go anywhere.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I won’t.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Eric turns onto his side and tugs the comforter high, blinding himself on the white mountain snowscape beyond their window. The hard part is over. Eric’s acclimated to the lodge, presents have been distributed, all that’s left to do is bake a few desserts and Eric is free of any remaining obligation. He doesn’t know how much time he looses, laying there, watching the snow, but eventually there’s the soft click of a doorknob turning, and Eric’s no longer alone with his thoughts. He rolls over and finds Jack balancing a breakfast tray while he keeps from losing his pants, already sliding down to expose the v of hips.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“I brought coffee and water for tea,” Jack offers, resting the tray on a small table near the windows. “I know your stomach’s been weird so maybe caffeine isn’t the best—”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Eric isn’t used to being taken care of. It happens, sure, and his relationship with Jack wouldn’t exist if there wasn’t healthy balance, but this feels different. Less like obligation and more like love.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“I don’t want to go out there.” Eric admits, stopping Jack in the middle of explaining what he scrambled into the eggs. “I’m sorry.”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“You still feeling shitty?”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“Tired, I think.” Eric uses their quiet code for a mental health day, and Jack’s concerned posture relaxes into understanding. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“Alright, I got you, Bits.”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“I’m sorry,” Eric apologizes again, appalled at the way his voice seizes on the verge of tears. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“No, no, hey,” Jack eases onto the bed beside Eric, running a hand along his blanket covered thigh. “No stress. It’s the best place in the world to take a break, right here. You need to sleep? Do you want me to stay with you?”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“Yes.”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“Can you get up to eat something.” </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Eric hides his face under the blanket and Jack makes an affirmative sound.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“Here’s what were gonna do,” Jack leans in to whisper, as if they’re children concocting some secret plan. “I’m going to go back down and make you a smoothie, throw some vitamins and protein powder in, and you’ll be good to go for the day if you want to cuddle. Can you do that for me.”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1"><em>“Yes.”</em> Eric says miserably. There’s a pressure on his scalp where Jack must be trying to kiss him.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“Okay.”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“Okay.”</span>
</p><p class="p3"> </p>
<hr/><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Eric wakes up and the sky is dark again, Jack tucked in beside him, snoring lightly. He checks his phone, finds a single blue heart in a text message from Alicia, and sees the time. 12:46 AM. He did it. He slept through Christmas.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p>
<hr/><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Eric comes down the stairs around nine, only half awake, and is nearly side-swept by an unfamiliar woman carrying a tall vase of lilies. He blinks the sleep from his eyes and takes a good look around, finally noticing the wreaths, ribbons, fresh flowers, and tidy decorations that definitely weren’t as abundant as before.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh! Excuse me —“ Eric stumbles, nearly knocking into Alicia as she points to another man holding a tray of candles.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Dining room, please,” Alicia, her hair curled and already in full makeup, directs. “Good morning, Eric! I hope you’re feeling better, I’m so sorry for all the noise—”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Are you . . . is this all for the party?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Alicia covers her mouth to hide a smile, as if she's about to ruin a surprise. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh, joy, I’m sure Jack forgot to mention our little tradition. He’s been so worried about overwhelming you.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">A man in a white coat rushes past Bitty on the way to the kitchen. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Overwhelming <em>me</em>? Can I help? I could make something?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh, Eric, that is so thoughtful! Normally, I would jump at the chance for you to whip up a delicious dish but we leave the cooking to the caterers today on Boxing Day. Speaking, breakfast is set out in the sun room since the kitchen is out of commission for the caterers. Though if you need anything, ask for the sous chef, Raquel, she’ll be happy to accommodate requests.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Alicia glides away like the starlet she probably was in a past life, or currently is in this one, acting nothing like the woman in long johns who sang tipsy carols with Eric less than two days ago. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">There <em>is</em> food. Eggs, sausages, a platter of gorgeous looking pastries, a pitcher of orange juice beside a bottle of champagne; far too much food for just four people. “This feels like a wedding,” Eric says, earning an odd look from a passing decorator. He tugs the zipper on his hoodie higher, wary of the glances being shot his way by the staff. He’s underdressed, unprepared, and Jack is nowhere to be found. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“This feels like <em>my</em> wedding.” Eric amends, speaking to no one.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p>
<hr/><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Shitty, hey, I’m with Jack’s fam and I’m —<em>”</em></span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>“Oh, ho, you finally got an invite to the Boxing Party?  You’ve only been boning Jack for like three years, and are actually engaged. It’s ‘bout fuckin’ time! Pro tip, skip the canapés and go right for the mini-cheesesteaks, also Jack’s grandmother is a piece of fucking work so stay clear. You’ll know her by the eyes. Blue as the Night King and just as deadly.”</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Wow. Um, I mean, I’m at his house but I didn’t know there was going to be a <em>party</em>-party. The lodge is <em>massive</em> —” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>“Ch’yeah dude. Used to be Lemiuex's. I think Bob shares it with a bunch of Famers, now.”</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Shitty, I’m serious. Alicia got my measurements from Jack so there’s a <em>tuxedo</em> in my room; a real one, Shitty. Custom! Yesterday was normal? Normal holiday stuff? Now it’s not. There’s caterers and security — ”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>“Whoa. Breathe. Didn’t Jack talk to you about the party?”</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Of course! I just didn’t think it’d be this kind of party! I didn’t know normal people hosted parties with private chefs and valets.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>“You, of all people, know Jack isn’t normal. He acts like he’s normal, tries very hard to be normal, but he isn’t. Bob and Alicia aren’t, either, and now you’re just as much not normal.”</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I guess I forgot about all that,” Eric sighs, pushing the curtains aside to watch a valet park another Porsche in the yard. “He mentioned Gretzky might show, and he always calls that man <em>‘Uncle’</em> so I figured it was an intimate family get together, not something out of <em>Dynasty</em>.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"><em>“</em>Dynasty<em>? Classy. Look, if it gets to be too much, take a beat and circle back. Hide in your room. Jack is the last person on the planet who will judge you about social anxiety. That said, don’t miss an opportunity to have a kickass experience. Fuck, my freshman year Jack brought me up and I spent like an hour talking weed politics with this one dude, who looked kinda familiar? Turned out he was Justin-fucking-Trudeau. Not saying I’m the reason weed’s legal in Canada, but —”</em></span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You’re saying you’re the reason weed is legal in Canada.” Eric finishes, slumping against the window, leaving a forehead print on the glass. “Shitty, I can’t. I’m going to die.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>“You will get through this. You will have fun. Just don’t drink too much. The eggnog is fucking loaded and Bob is hella enabling.” </em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Okay.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>“Bitty.”</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’m not kidding. I don’t think I can do it.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>“Go make out with your hot boyfriend. And slap his ass for me. He’ll know what it means. Have fun, call me back if you need. Love you, bro.”</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The call ends, and Eric’s lifeline to normalcy disappears along with Shitty’s voice. Beyond the glass, Eric can see fluffy snowflakes falling on a veritable winter wonderland, but as his vision refocuses, he only sees himself reflected in the window. Boasting split ends and dark circles under his eyes, Eric can’t believe he’s let things get this bad.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">There’s a soft knock from the door, and Jack peeks in.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Hey. You good?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Eric’s formulating a response when Jack pushes the heavy oak door wide and reveals that he’s already in his suit, hair brushed back with a hint of gel, looking for all the world like he’s just stepped out of a spy movie. He flashes a double thumbs-up, then a thumbs-down.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“How do I look? I think I’ve put on more weight since last year, the slacks are a little tight —“</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Lord, you look amazing,” Eric praises, genuinely struck by how wonderful his partner looks. “Can’t tell at all.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Jack’s smile is both relieved and flattered, pink rising in his cheeks. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Thanks, Bits. Don’t hold a candle to you, though. You look like a model.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Ha, right?” Eric knows Jack isn’t lying, but can’t quite believe him. This is a kindness. An olive branch to his unwell fiancé. “Getting busy out there?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Def picking up. Everyone’s coming in with wet pant legs because they’re having to park so far down the lane. Lucky for us we’re staying where the action is.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You look stunning,” Jack steps in close and rests his hands on Eric’s hips, holding him close. “Everyone is going to love you.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Eric forces a smile.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Well, I guess we should get out there.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Bits, everyone is going to love you,” Jack repeats, lifting a hand to cup Eric’s cheek. “And no one is going to hold it against you if you sneak back up here when things get to be too much. Not me, not my parents, not anyone.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The eye contact is too much, and Eric has to look down and away, blinking furiously to keep from crying. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I don’t know what’s wrong.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Doesn’t matter what it is,” Jack pulls him into a hug, taking care not to mess up Eric’s hair or the line of his suit. “You can be sad, or nervous, anything you like. Just keep telling me and I’ll try to help.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What if I don’t go down?” Eric whispers, hearing the double entendre and pre-empting Jack’s imminent chirp with, “Downstairs to the party, I mean. What if I just stayed here?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The question hangs in the air like a lone birthday balloon as Jack takes a deep breath, and laments, “Well, I guess we could sneak a tray of food and a bottle of champagne. Lock the door and have a party of our own. If you <em>wanted.” </em>Jack leans in and presses a kiss to the soft skin below Eric’s left ear, whispering, “You know, I haven’t given you <em>your</em> present yet.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Is it a sexy coupon book?” Eric whispers back, relishing the way Jack goes suspiciously quiet. “You know I love discount debauchery.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“We’ll take a lap,” Jack reasons, ignoring Bitty’s comments entirely. “Make an appearance, grab a drink, then we split up, I’ll get the food, you hit up the wine cellar, meet back here in thirty.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Such a good leader,” Eric says, balling his fist to tap it on his partner’s firm chest. “I can do this.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You can do anything.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"><em>‘Anything except keep myself together,’</em> Eric thinks to himself, allowing Jack to guide him down the hall toward the stairs and into a wall of sound: revelry, music, and laughter getting Eric’s heart racing. He can do this. He can do this. He can —</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  
</p>
<hr/><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He can’t do it.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Splitting from Jack, Eric makes it three feet before he’s sidestepping a greeting from an ESPN commentator that spent two months critiquing Eric’s off-ice leadership throughout the Frozen Four. The man smiles and offers a hand. “Good season,” he says, like Eric didn’t spend evenings crying in the shower because of this man’s ‘hot takes’, and excuses himself; making a b-line to the deck, where the cold has kept the guests from venturing outside. If Eric can pull himself together, if he can settle down, he’ll be fine, and no one will know that Eric can’t manage his emotions around his ‘betters’.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He doesn’t know how much time passes between his retreat and the sound of the door behind him opening, but his fingers are starting to get stiff when a familiar voice goes, “There you are.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Eric pushes himself off the railing and schools his expression into something neutral before turning to find Alicia, resplendent as a Golden Age starlet in a white fur coat, hair twirled and pinned against her nape in a vintage style that emphasizes her bright, blue eyes and crimson lips. She’s perfect. Everyone is perfect. Everyone except Eric.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Still feeling gross?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Don’t think I ever stopped,” Eric admits, too tired to cover his own discomfort. “Maybe I am sick.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh, you’re not sick, it’s just nerves,” she sounds so certain it’s hard not to wonder what information Eric’s been unknowingly communicating. “What, you don’t think I can’t see when someone’s got butterflies? I wasn’t on Broadway long, but I know stage fright.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I don’t get ‘stage fright’,” Eric defends, though he isn’t certain why.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Eric, I say this with love, but if it was possible for you to act any less like yourself, I’d be talking to a stranger.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The comment draws an involuntary, desperate laugh from Eric’s throat, and he runs his cold hands over his face to calm himself.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I guess I’ve been pretty off, haven’t I?” Eric concedes.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You’re not comfortable.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’m not this kind of person,” Eric counters. “Everyone here can tell, too. Everyone wants to talk about Jack, and no one asks me about me, because someday I won’t be the one they’re talking to. It’ll be some actor, or another player, someone on Jack’s level that doesn’t fall to pieces over a nice house and too many Christmas presents.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">"Who is any kind of person?"<br/>
<br/>
Alicia clutches the fur around her shoulders and sighs, a puff of white curling around her neatly pinned hair. She doesn’t look real. Like Eric could reach out and find air between his fingers if he had the courage to try and touch her.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">"You know, Bobby grew up with very little.” She says softly, as if wary of eavesdroppers. “His family struggled, couldn’t afford food to put on the table some nights, let alone purchase hockey equipment or pay team fees. . . Has Jack told you any of this? This story?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Eric shakes his head, and Alicia blinks up, glancing out into the valley, giving Eric the impression she’s going to be leaving out far more than she shares.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Alright. Well, when Bobby was eight or nine, he tried to steal a pair of skates from his local rink. He didn't get far, he’s about as subtle as a brick sometimes, but the man who caught him sat him down and asked him why he needed the skates so badly he felt he had to steal them. Bobby said he wanted to play hockey like the other boys, but he couldn’t ask his parents because he knew they couldn’t afford it. The man made Bobby a deal. He said,<em> ‘If you promise to never steal anything ever again, I’ll help you buy a new pair of skates.’</em>”   </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Did he?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Surprisingly, yes, he did. He paid Bobby's team fees, as well. For years and years. All the way up until he signed with the Habs. And, do you know, the man who caught a dirty little boy rustling through a gear bag and decided to do something kind instead of walking away was Maurice Richard.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Rocket Richard?” Eric echoes, not quite certain. He knows of Richard the same way he knows about Gretzky and Lemiuex. Reputation more than stats, but the weight of the revelation isn't lessened by his loose knowledge of NHL history. Alicia, to her credit, allows the information to settle.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">"Bobby decided a very long time ago he would never be stingy with his money. If he could do anything to make someone happy, he would. He bought his parents a house with the salary from his first season, and there's probably a good five thousand peewee kids he's sponsored in the last thirty years. You may not be 'that' kind of person, Eric, but neither are any of us. We're just people. Trying to do good, trying to live, trying to be comfortable with blessings we don't feel we deserve. Blessings of all kinds.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">They sit together in a quiet stillness; Eric in contemplation, Alicia in wait.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">"I don't know what to say."</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Well, conversations aren't tests." Alicia rests her chin in her hand, watching Eric with curiously red eyes. “And I know you aren’t feeling well, but do you at least understand better? Feel a little less expectation?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Eric looks down and away to press his fists against his eyes, trying not to cry. Deep down, he knows she’s right. It’s not about the fame and fortune, it’s about Little Eric Bittle who was supposed to marry a nice girl and provide a good life for his family. He let so many people down, he let <em>himself</em> down, and he’s so happy he did, but he can’t stop feeling like he cheated. Everything wonderful in his life is a lie, a mistake, and one day it’s all going to be taken away because Jack will wake up and realize Bitty isn’t <em>worth</em> the trouble. His breath hitches and Alicia leans into him, allowing Eric to rest his head on her shoulder.  </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’m so happy.” Eric drops his head and allows the tears to come. “Why do I still feel like this?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Everyone has doubts, Eric, but I am here to tell you that you are worthy of good things, no matter what your brain is telling you right now.” Alicia whispers kindly, like a benediction Eric didn’t know he needed. “And, if there’s one thing we’ve learned in this family, it’s how important mental health is. So, if you need to talk to someone, say the word.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You think I’m a mess?” Eric jokes lamely, hoping no one from the party catches him weeping on the shoulder of his soon-to-be mother-in-law.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Mess? No, I think you’re human.”  </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Eric watches in shock as Alicia pulls out a cigarette and small lighter from a hidden pocket in her dress, covering the end with her palm to hide the flame as she lights up.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You <em>smoke</em>?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Absolutely not,” Alicia says, taking a long drag. On the exhale, Eric smells the familiar bite of marijuana, and Alicia offers the ‘cigarette’ like a benediction. “You look like you’re ready to jump off this patio and I’m not inclined to have to explain that scenario to my bereaved son. Go on, I won’t judge.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Why would you, they’re your drugs.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Eric takes the smoldering joint and inhales deeply (though not as deep as he could, has to draw a boundary somewhere). </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You know that’s Jack’s strain?” Alicia offers when Eric passes the joint back to her.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yeah, when medical pot legalized, one of Bob’s old teammates reached out. Guy’s son was running some health startup and they were working on THC strains for athletes. Jack was having a rough time coming off his meds and thought he’d give it a shot, test out what they were developing. Ended up with a strain that was great for anxiety and stress relief with minimal high. There’s some variant something that’s good for pain management too, but mostly the settling down bit. Works wonders.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Jack smokes <em>this</em>?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Apparently not much anymore if you didn’t know about it.” Alicia flicks the butt of the joint out into the snow, extinguishing it. “This stuff won’t make you loopy, don’t worry.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh hell, Jack. I was supposed to get the champagne and meet him back upstairs,” Eric recalls, brushing snowflakes off his sleeve. “How long have I been out here?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Darling, he knows where you are,” Alicia assuages, pointing back at the windows; Eric turns to see Jack socializing with several hockey legends. “Jack <em>always</em> knows where you are.”</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p>
<hr/><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Eric tucks against the wall, torn between flattered and embarassed as he catches Jack boasting about Eric’s book deal to a few younger players, his baritone voice carrying over pleasant violins and charming small-talk. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Hey, there you are.” Jack’s smile is guarded, like he’s protecting Eric from himself as much as he’s blocking him from the guests. “Boys, if you’ll excuse me.”</span>
</p><p class="p1"><span class="s1">Eric allows himself to be guided to a small study off the great room, Jack’s hand a warm weight on his arm as he slides the door shut against the noise.</span> <span class="s1">This evening was never about supposed to be about driving Eric to insanity, it was about stuffing his face and drinking until everything was just the right kind of fuzzy. </span></p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You know why this is my favorite party?” Jack starts when they’re alone, running his hands lightly up and down Eric’s arms. “No cameras, no press, just people who happen to be a little recognizable, letting their guard down. Like you. Like me. I wouldn’t bring you here if I thought it’d put you in a bad spot.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’m not recognizable, Jack,” Eric sighs, emotionally depleted from his conversation with Alicia. “I’m not anybody.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Hey. You are Eric Bittle.” Jack guides Eric’s chin up, keeping his not-tears in check. “National Champion, first out Captain of an NCAA men’s hockey team, YouTuber, soon-to-be-published author, and the love of my life. If anything, you should be embarrassed to be seen with me. I’m a mentally ill drug addict who graduated college at twenty-five.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Eric tries very hard not to laugh, but Jack always knows how to get him going. It’s part of his charm, and Eric loves him for it. He really, really does. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I don’t want to care what people think about me,” Eric’s admission carries more hurt than Jack probably knows what to do with. “There’s just so much to <em>care</em> about.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Hey. Listen. You belong here as much as anyone. More so, because this is your home, too.” Jack tugs Eric forward, looping their arms and guiding him out of the shadows. “All these people you’re nervous to meet? They’re excited to meet <em>you</em> right back.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“. . . Mama would absolutely die if she knew I’d met Céline Dion.” Eric says after a beat, trying to convince himself he’s put together enough to confront an A-lister. He’s not, and Jack sees through the bravado immediately. “Should have seen the texts I got after that photo with Wayne this summer, my god, you’d have thought I’d met the Pope.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Pope gives your mom the same hard-on as hockey vets, eh?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You’re <em>terrible</em>.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“The worst, and you’re officially stuck with me.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Jack pats Eric’s hand, searching for familiar faces when they enter the great room. There aren’t many, making it easy to lock eyes with Jack’s mother across the room. Eric tries to ignore the excited smile that blooms across her face when she realizes he’s returned to the party on Jack’s arm.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"><em>“We’ve been spotted,”</em> Jack whispers, giving Eric a fond shake as he affects what he must think is an Australian accent. <em>“It’s a wild Alicia Zimmermann. You wouldn’t guess it by looking at her, but the female is dominant over her chosen mate, who clothes himself in brightly colored fabrics to intimidate other potential suitors.”</em></span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Eric hides his laughter behind his free hand and loses himself in Jack’s rambling attempts at levity, feeling more truly loved in this moment than he’s felt in days.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You know, it’s been speculated that a young Zimmermann will mate for life,” Jack continues softly, reaching over to stroke his thumb along Eric’s ring finger, warming the metal of his engagement band. “When they find the right partner. Someone who loves them unconditionally, and deserves to be loved wholly in return.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The room around them is awash with bright lights and merriment that Eric still can’t force himself to revel in; no, the source of Eric’s comfort in this moment is the man beside him, holding him, loving him. Eric takes a deep breath, puffing his chest and steeling himself for the gauntlet ahead. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’m still nervous.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“That’s okay.” Jack insists. “You’re nervous, I’m anxious. Together, we’ll just be . . . well, <em>together</em>.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Eric can live with that. He kind of has to.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p>
<hr/><hr/><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The flight back to Providence is much less fraught than the one out of the city; Eric is far less aware of his inner-ear, for one, but now that Eric’s finally settled, it’s much too quick a goodbye. The wheels touch down, an attendant opens the luggage hatch, and Eric’s whirlwind, emotionally exhausting winter vacation is over. Instead of dread, there’s only stirrings of regret.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Bob walks them to their car, and Jack takes the suitcases when his father asks Eric to hang back.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I didn’t want to do this when you when you weren’t feeling well, but this is the gift I’ve been wanting to give you,” Bob says, waiting on Eric to unwrap the sleek paper. “It’s a tradition of mine, for when you win your first Championship. Wanted to give it to you after the speech you gave, but you know Jack had his own ideas about how your graduation was going to go.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Bob palms the small box gently, embarrassed when he realizes Eric recognizes the present as he hands it over.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“That’s really thoughtful — ” Eric starts before he’s even seen the present, sliding his thumb under the tape, revealing a lacquered wood box. Setting the paper aside, Eric flips the small brass latch and finds a silver colored watch resting on a black cushion.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He recognizes the brand and the style. It’s the same watch Jack wears when he has to attend nice events. It’s the same watch Kent Parson wore when he showed up on the Haus’ back porch like a drifter. It’s a newer model of the same watch Bob is wearing right now. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“My mentor gave me this watch when I took my first cup. To give me something to look at when I couldn’t wear my ring, that would remind me of how far I’d come. I hope it can do the same for you.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“This is . . .” Eric’s vision goes fuzzy enough he can’t even make out the detailing on the watch face, only see the sparkle of the small gems inlaid where the numbers should be. “I love it. Thank you, Bob. Truly.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You’re crying,” Bob smiles, looking a little teary himself. “Must mean I did a good job.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Great job.” Eric sniffs, closing the box and moving in for a hug, wrapping his arms tightly around Bob’s torso, surprising the older man. “I love it. Thank you, Dad Bob.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You’re a really good kid, Eric,” Bob whispers, leaning in to hug back tightly. “You know you don’t have anything to prove to anyone. Not a goddamn thing.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Sir, I’ve done enough crying this weekend,” Eric accuses lightly, pulling back to wipe his face with his free hand. “Please don’t go getting me started again.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Alright.” Bob gives Eric a gentle shove, or what a retired hockey pro must think is a gentle shove, and gestures back to Jack’s car, hiding a wet sniff of his own as he rallies. “Go on. Jack probably thinks I’m sticking my foot in it, go defend my honor, will you?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I am not your personal enforcer, Sir,” Eric calls over his shoulder as he departs. “Call your wife for that!”</span>
</p><p class="p5"> </p>
<hr/><p class="p5"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Dad give you a present?” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Jack asks, pulling away from the hangar and leaving his waving father in the rear-view. Eric nods, holding the watch case in his lap like the treasure it is, Bob’s words replaying in his mind, stoking the embers of his self worth into a small, resilient flame. Jack turns his head a touch, trying to keep his eyes on the road, but still wanting to look at Eric for confirmation of <em>something</em>. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“He did.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“And?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“And I’m glad you had him wait,” Eric runs his thumb along the clasp reverently. “Wouldn’t have meant as much if I’d gotten a few months ago. Or even two days ago. I needed it to happen right when it did.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Jack’s cautious smile turns genuine and broad as he looks back out over the busy stretch of road. It’s hard for Eric not to mirror the expression. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Also, I cried,” Eric offers, earning a low laugh from his fiancé. “Wept like a baby.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yeah, yeah, I could, uh, tell.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Jack reaches across the console and takes Eric’s hand, lacing their fingers. While Eric is certain there will always be a part of him that doesn’t feel worthy of the life he’s built for himself, there’s a comfort that comes from knowing just how many people love him just as he is, without expectation of who he might become.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“Hey, guess what?” Eric asks, squeezing Jack’s hand lightly as they hit their exit home. “I don’t have anything to prove.” </span>
</p><p class="p2">“Bits,” Jack laughs. “You never did.”</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p2"> </p>
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